


The Grief Squad

by Relevant_Peach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-War, Recovery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:26:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relevant_Peach/pseuds/Relevant_Peach
Summary: As Harry examines his life after the Final Battle, he is content.  He has a solid group of friends who are there for each other in good times and bad, and he couldn't ask for anything more.  As his friends challenge his faith, and he's forced to examine his assumptions, Harry learns the difference between existing and truly living.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 156





	The Grief Squad

It starts after Fred’s death, really. Hermione and Harry, unsure what to do with the helpless miasma of emotions that churn through them as the Weasleys start to cope with the loss of one of their own, make a point to be at the Burrow the day after everyone left the Castle.

Standing on the doorstep, Hermione says, “I don’t really know what to say, what to do.”

“Nobody does,” Harry answers. “There’s not much you can say or do. But they’ll feel lonely, and having people there will help.”

“You didn’t want anyone with you, after…”

After Sirius. “No, but I’m emotionally damaged. You can’t use me as an accurate gauge.”

“You aren’t emotionally damaged, Harry Potter!” Hermione is indignant, thumps him on the arm. Harry squeezes her hand reassuringly, and knocks on the door, the carrier bag he is holding banging into his chest.

Arthur Weasley opens it and stands looking at them. “Kids,” he says softly. “You’re here.”

“We are,” Harry agrees. “If we’re intruding, you need only say, but I brought some groceries. Didn’t want you to have to go out to the shops if you needed anything.”

Arthur’s eyes moisten slightly. “You’re so good,” he says finally, his voice breaking on the last word. Harry drops the carrier bag on the ground, and allows himself to be wrapped in a hug. He feels the shaking of Mr. Weasley’s shoulders, and clings tightly. After a moment, Arthur composes himself, and pulls away. “Come through,” he says. “Molly will be delighted to see you.”

Molly is at the kitchen table, sitting across from George, holding one of his hands with both of hers. She is speaking quietly, and George is nodding, tears flowing unchecked down his cheeks. “Molly,” Arthur says, trying to summon some of his usual good humour. “Look who’s here.”

“Harry! And Hermione! Oh you are good to come, dears.” Molly’s eyes shine, but she keeps her tears checked for the moment. “I’ll just put tea on.”

“No need, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry says, and when she makes a little annoyed cluck with her tongue amends, “Molly. I’ve got some things to put away for you, I’ll put the kettle on when I’m doing that.”

“You didn’t need to bring anything,” she chides.

“Just a few staples, I know you’ll have a house full,” Harry reassures her, and, accepting the kiss she plants on his cheek, goes to the hob. Hermione watches as he deftly spells the kettle on, puts groceries away, and begins to throw together a simple dough. She smiles, her heart full. He really is so _good_.

Ron comes down the stairs then, his face drawn and tired, and Hermione goes to him, holds him tight. She hustles him to the table, just as Harry is placing mugs of tea. Ron squeezes her hand. “Thanks for coming,” he whispers.

“Where else would I be?” Her voice is mild, but her gaze affectionate.

And so the day passes. Luna Lovegood and Neville arrive, bearing a plant, and an enormous jug of Dirigible Plum Brandy. Harry continues in the kitchen, pressing soups and hearty breads on the Weasleys any time he can make one of them sit down. Hermione spells a load of laundry on. Luna and Neville de-gnome the garden. As sundown approaches, Harry summons the brandy, and pours everyone a healthy measure. McGonagall arrives at some point near dinner, along with Hagrid, and they adjourn to the garden where Ron and Hermione (but mostly Hermione) starts a bonfire.

George sits next to Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordon on his other side. They speak quietly to him, and at one point, Harry is pleased to see a little smile appear on his face, even if it drifts away just as quickly. Percy and his girlfriend Audrey appear, followed by Bill and Fleur. As the night passes, Harry looks at Molly and Arthur, taking in their weary countenance. “Maybe you might like some rest?”

Molly looks at him as though startled to see him. “Oh yes, dear, of course.” She continues sitting, staring into the flames. Harry gives Ron a look.

“Mum,” Ron said, “Dad’s looking tired. You should see that he gets some sleep.”

“Oh, of course, what was I thinking? Come, Arthur dear, you’ll catch your death out here in the damp.” She makes it nearly to the door, but then stops. “I don’t think we have enough clean towels!” Her voice rises in a wail, but Hermione is by her side in an instant. 

“Don’t worry, Molly, I washed a load earlier. There are plenty.” Molly pats her cheek in gratitude, and they wearily make their way inside.

Ron gives Harry a little smile, delighted with his ability to manage his mother, but seems to suddenly remember everything, and his face falls. Harry says, “Hey. It’s okay to smile. It feels strange, I imagine, but Freddie taught you everything you know about managing Molly. He’d rather like us to have a bit of a laugh, I expect.”

“I reckon he would,” Ron says gruffly.

Seamus and Dean arrive then, with reinforcements, in the form of several bottles of fire whiskey, and, rather unexpectedly, Blaise Zabini. He’d remained neutral during the war, and in the past year, he and Dean have grown close. Harry is the first one over to greet them. He hugs them all in turn, hugging Blaise a little longer than Dean and Seamus, and saying, “It’s good that you’re here, mate. Thanks for coming.”

“That was nice,” Hermione whispers in his ear, a little later.

“I didn’t _die_ to defeat that snake-face arsehole only to keep allowing stupid things from the past to divide us,” Harry answers grimly. He notices, with some approval, that Neville has spent most of the day clinging to Ginny like a limpet. He hadn’t known that they were together, but it makes sense, and he is surprised that he isn’t jealous in the slightest. The night ends on a surprisingly hopeful note, the group agreeing to meet at the Hog’s Head for a get together the following month.

And they do. And the month following, the whole bunch of them meet again, but this time, Pansy Parkinson arrives too. Harry stills for a moment, as she raises her chin defensively, but, recalling his earlier words to Hermione, he smiles and said, “Good to see you Pansy. I’m glad you could come.” His welcome sets the tone, and within a few hours, they are merrily on their way to getting pissed. 

Some time later, Pansy wobbles over to him, and sits beside him. “Potter,” she says. “Thanks for, you know, stuff. You’re not so bad.”

Harry laughs, “Either are you.” She grips his face with both hands and lays a wet kiss on his forehead, then staggers off to torment Blaise about his relationship with Dean.

The great pissups continue each month, with an ever-rotating list of attendees. Harry realizes, at one such occasion, as he sits across the table from Draco Malfoy and Greg Goyle, that _this_ is what he’d been fighting for. It isn’t as if the old prejudices were completely gone. Some of the older families still cling to their blood-purity ideals. Some of the children of Death Eaters still get accosted and spat on in Diagon Alley. But somehow, he can sit in a pub, across from his once-nemesis and his henchman, and share a pint, while Luna braids Greg’s fringe. Harry allows himself to believe that things are finally looking up.

He continues to think that, until one morning when Hermione clatters into his bedroom at half-five, her face wild and frantic, and tears on her lashes. “Harry,” she says. “It’s Seamus.”

Harry is instantly alert, hopping out of bed and pulling a pair of jeans on. “I’ll go. Is he at the Ministry or St. Mungo’s?” Seamus hasn’t been coping, in the aftermath of the war. Harry has been woken a few times to help: First, to try to convince him to leave the Leaky, when, drunk and belligerent, he’d taken a swing at Tom when he’d given last call. Then, to use his influence as the Saviour, to bail Seamus out of the holding cells at the Ministry when he’d been caught using magic in the middle of a Muggle Supermarket. Seamus had cried on Harry’s shoulder all the way home, his gin-soaked breath hot in Harry’s ear as he thanked him, and promised to give up the drink. A third time, he’d overdosed on potions, and had been rushed to St. Mungo’s, where Harry had sat by his side, green eyes never leaving Seamus’ face as he’d waited for him to wake up. All of their friends have tried to help him stop. Dean has moved in with him, and Pansy has gotten him a job with her uncle. But Seamus is too shattered from the stress of the year, and he keeps falling off the wagon.

“Oh Harry,” she says. “he’s died.”

Harry staggers, and Hermione clutches his arm. Her tiny arms grip his, hard enough to hurt. The pinch of her strong fingers keep him grounded as he sucks in a harsh breath and listens to the roaring in his ears. “H-how,” he asks weakly.

“He was hit by a car. He’d been drinking, taking potions, and he ran in front of a fucking car outside King’s Cross. The driver couldn’t stop in time.” Hermione’s voice is bleak, but her eyes…Harry can’t stop looking at them. Normally so kind, they are snapping with anger. 

“Where’s Dean?” Harry asks.

“At Blaise’s,” Hermione answers.

“Let’s go,” Harry says.

“Harry…I can’t. I can’t help Dean right now. I’m so fucking furious…” The tears are back now, and Harry pulls her close, squeezing tight as her tears fall down his neck.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he soothes. “I want you to go to the Burrow and find Ron. You do what you need to, and when you can, come.”

After Harry is satisfied that Hermione is safely at the Burrow, he throws on a shirt, and apparates to an alleyway outside Blaise’s building. He can hear Dean from the hallway, and he knocks on the door to be greeted by a wild-eyed Blaise. “I don’t know how to help him,” he whispers. 

“It’s okay,” Harry says, giving him a hug. “Cast a quick silencing charm, will you, mate?”

Dean is in the room that Blaise has converted into a studio for him. He is systematically and furiously destroying everything inside. “Dean,” Harry says softly.

Dean glares at him. “Don’t try to stop me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I bet you’re furious, right now,” Harry replies calmly, stepping inside the room.

“How could he be so fucking stupid?” Dean roars, flinging a canvas at the wall. “He wouldn’t stop! I tried everything to make him stop, but he was so fucking stubborn, and he just kept hurting himself!” Dean is really doing a number on his studio, but Harry understands this. The guilt, and the helplessness, and the agonizing hole where your heart should be.

There’s a glass on the table, and without stopping to think what he’s doing, Harry picks it up and flings it into a corner, where it shatters. Dean stops, and looks at him in shock. “Sorry,” Harry mutters. “I felt like helping.” Dean barks a startled laugh, which just as quickly turns into a sob, and he launches himself into Harry, who wraps his arms around him tight. They sink to the ground, and Harry lets him cry and cry. He squeezes him tight, until Dean runs out of tears.

Looking around, a little ashamed, Dean sighs. “I really fucked up this room,” he says.

“It could be worse,” Harry reassures him. “I once did the same to Dumbledore’s office. Fortunately, I learned a pretty nifty spell from him and Slughorn.” He waves his wand, and the office rights itself, canvases and paint tubes and brushes whirling around them.

They make their way into the kitchen, and lots of people have arrived. Neville and Gin, Ron and Hermione, Susan Bones, and Greg Goyle. Luna is on the balcony, watering Blaise’s plants. Harry makes his way to the kettle and starts to make tea, just as Draco and Pansy arrive through the floo.

There are endless cups of tea, and someone puts on some music, quiet. They sit around Blaise’s flat for hours, mostly lost in their own thoughts. Dean looks like a broken thing. He sits, utterly silent and still, Blaise wrapped around him, stroking his arm. Sometimes, tears roll down Dean’s cheeks, but he doesn’t notice them, just sits unmoving, while Blaise mops them away helplessly.

Hermione has been sitting at the same spot at the table since she arrived. An untouched cup of tea sits in front of her, and Harry has replaced it with fresh, hot brew three times. She is holding her wand, he notes, her knuckles white, her arm shaking. Harry isn’t at all surprised when she leaps from her chair like an explosion, and stomps out to the balcony. Ron makes a wounded sound, and half raises from his chair, but Harry meets his eyes, and in the practiced exchange of glances they’ve developed over the past seven years, they agree that Harry will go.

Hermione is leaning on her wrists on the ledge, staring down at the traffic, and the people who bustle past. It’s a strangely beautiful day, Harry notices. The sun is surprisingly warm for October, and the sky is heartbreakingly blue, with puffy clouds that drift along without any urgency. The air smells like fall, but early fall, where Harry thinks of fresh parchment, and possibilities, and apples warmed by the afternoon sun, not decomposing leaves and impending slumber. Harry stands next to her for a long time, quiet, waiting. Hermione’s tension builds and roils around them, until finally, Harry says, “Mi?”, and that’s all she needs, and her fury unleashes in a desperate cry.

She isn’t ready to be touched, so Harry just stands there, as her breath comes fast and harsh. Finally, she says, “It was over, Harry. We won, and it was over, and we were going to get to move on. We were going to stop _burying_ the people we loved.” She’s looking at him, and he nods, still watching the people on the street below, walking along as if today were normal, and completely unaware that the world sometimes ends in tiny increments, soul by soul, body by body.

Harry touches her arm then, and pulls her to sit against the wall. She lets her head fall on his shoulder and he pets her hair a little. “Why though? Why couldn’t he let it be over?”

“Because sometimes it isn’t over,” a voice says, and they both look up to see that Draco is standing in the doorway. “And assuming that everybody copes in the same way is too simple, Hermione.”

“Tell that to Lavender,” Hermione bites out. “Or Fred, or Remus…or Vincent, who didn’t get a chance to cope at all.”

“Some people died that night,” Harry says, “but it just took their bodies a bit longer to catch up. It doesn’t mean that we grieve them any less.” He gets up, goes inside and takes a turn sitting with Dean.

That night, whether it’s in poor taste or not, they go to a Muggle dance club, and under the flashing lights, with the bass thumping deep in their chests, they jump and writhe and Harry watches as the lights turn Draco’s white-blonde hair pink and blue and he thinks that might be alright.

As the calendar flips over to the next year, and people drift in and out of their haphazardly assembled group of refugees to this new world, Hermione and Ron get married. The wedding is beautiful. Hermione, in her white gown, with seed pearls sewn to the bodice, her hair pinned up and convinced to behave with copious amounts of Sleakeasy, is so radiant that Harry’s breath catches. She’s regarding him through the mirror as Pansy touches up her lipstick, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re lovely,” he says simply, and her eyes moisten a little before Pansy screeches at him to stop ruining her work.

It’s time, and Harry and Hermione stand at the back of the marquee, hidden from sight. Harry extends his elbow and Hermione’s small hand tucks in, warm and firm, and utterly certain. They step into view, and Hermione stands on her tiptoes to whisper, “I’m pregnant,” into Harry’s ear. He stumbles for a half-step, before righting himself and continuing to guide her down the aisle. As he kisses her cheek before placing her hand into Ron’s huge one, he whispers back, “You’re going to be brilliant parents.”

After the bonding, he stands to give his speech, straightens his robes, and smiles at the assembled crowd. Their friends take up two large tables, and they holler their support as he clears his throat. “We’re here tonight to celebrate two people who love fiercely, even when loving anything at all seems like a futile gesture. I won’t bore you all with how I was lucky enough to befriend them, as I’ve been told that battles with Mountain Trolls are impolite conversations for the dinner table. Instead, I’ll simply say that recent years have found us all in need of a little hope, and I’ll draw your attention to the best example of that I can think of.” He makes eye contact with them both. Hermione is weeping openly, her beautiful face aglow with emotion and love. Ron draws her closer, kisses her cheek, wipes away her tears. “Ron and Hermione, you made me a part of a family, something I never dreamed I could have. We’ve been at one another’s side through all sorts of adventures, and I’m so pleased and grateful that I get to be the first to wish you luck and good fortune as you begin this next one. To Ron and Hermione!” As champagne glasses tinkle around him like raindrops on a roof, Harry catches McGonagall’s eye. She nods approvingly at him, and Harry winks back at her.

Later, as Luna and George are doing an enthusiastic Charleston on the dance floor, while Ron and Hermione sway together in their own world, McGonagall seats herself in the chair opposite Harry. He’s been sitting in a corner for the past hour, watching contentedly, as the most important people in his world whirl by in a kaleidoscope of happiness. “Feeling a little melancholy, Mister Potter?” 

Harry grins easily, the three fire-whiskies he’s consumed making the blood pump warmly through his heart, his living, beating heart. “Not in the slightest,” he assures her. “Sometimes I can’t believe it’s real, though. That this world is ours now, and we’re safe.”

“It wasn’t without its cost,” McGonagall remarks.

“True,” Harry concedes. “If only I’d been better. Faster.” The guilt weighs heavily, some days, and Harry dreams of those they’ve lost nearly every night.

“Bollocks,” McGonagall says pertly, and Harry grins in spite of himself. McGonagall is a few fire-whiskies in, herself, it seems. “You did beautifully, Potter. No one could have asked more of you, and I won’t allow you to minimize your sacrifice.” Harry doesn’t know what to say. “Do you feel left out?”

Harry isn’t expecting the question, but he understands what she’s asking. It’s something that nobody has been brave enough to ask him, but he knows that everyone wonders. Wonders if he’s jealous of Ron and Hermione, or if he feels threatened that the Gryffindor Three is now a two plus one. “No,” he says honestly. “I don’t really know how to love someone properly. I’m happy that other people find it, but I don’t feel like I’m missing out. I guess I’m just grateful for what I do have. It’s a lot more than I expected.”

McGonagall stares at him for a long time before she mutters something that sounds a lot like “Dumbledore,” but she pats his knee and says, “I expect that you might be surprised at how properly you’re able to love, Harry. Now, you don’t need to be entertaining a maudlin old woman. Go dance with your friends.”

“You’ve seen me dance, Professor,” Harry says lightly, but he gets up and goes to the bar anyway. The night dissolves into shots, and Harry _does_ dance, on a table, and there’s an ill advised bout of skinny dipping in the pond after the adults have gone to bed. Harry’s last coherent thought, before he passes out under an apple tree, is that even when things change, they’re going to be just fine.

The next few years are a halcyon blur of weddings, and babies, helping people move into new houses, and more parties than Harry can count. The group gets together at least once a month and it’s a more wholesome affair these days, lunch, not dinner, with children running through the garden of whomever is hosting, and the inevitable Quidditch match that follows is far less bloodthirsty than it was. Harry has taken over from Madame Hooch as Flying Instructor at Hogwarts, and so he’s mostly exempted from hosting, so long as he convinces the Hogwarts elves to supply him with some sort of dessert. Harry loves teaching flying and refereeing Quidditch, and he loves his friends, and he’s now Godfather to five separate children, who he spoils rotten. It’s a much fuller life than he ever dreamed of, back when he was a small boy in a small cupboard. He’s content.

So he’s surprised when, at a picnic that he’s managed to convince Minerva to allow him to host at Hogwarts, Luna sits next to him expectantly. He’d been, as had become his custom, sitting off to one side, watching his friends and family playing in and around the Black Lake. The squid is delighted to have the company, and it waves a lazy tentacle in the direction of George and Charlie, who are launching off of one another’s shoulders and cannonballing under the surface. The children are running around screaming. Molly is fussing over the picnic baskets, which, Harry knows, has been stocked with never-ending food, coming directly from the kitchens. Teddy is aloft the new broom Harry bought him, tentatively trying to do a loop. Luna’s gaze is uncharacteristically sharp, and instantly Harry knows what’s coming. “Luna,” he says warningly.

“Harry,” she says back in the same tone. He and Luna have been through the _shit_ together. When her dad was admitted to a live-in program in an outplacement facility of Janus Thickey, (Xenophilia’s war-related trauma being too much for the man to deal with), Harry spent nearly a month sleeping on her couch, so she hadn’t had to sleep in an empty house. He’d helped her tend to the Dirigible Plums, and painted walls with her, and made her childhood home her own. Luna has changed, since the war. Where once she was gentle, with a head in the clouds, she’s much more direct. She’s harder, with a keen intolerance for bullshit, and Harry finally understands why she sorted Ravenclaw. Now, happily married to Rolf Scamander, she is heavily pregnant with twins, and falls prey to the tendency of coupled-up friends to try to force Harry to find someone.

It’s happened a million times before. Hermione is relentless, and now when Harry sees that recognizable ‘must fix Harry’ look on her face, he makes a hasty exit. Neville suggests potential mates like a sommelier would present fine wines, but he’s affable enough when Harry declines. Pansy seems to delight in loudly pointing out potential partners and rating them out of ten. Harry is sick to death of it all. “What, Luna,” he says finally, when it’s clear that she’s not going to be distracted from her mission.

“You know what.”

“Then you know my answer,” he points out, “and there’s no point in having an argument that will make us both feel awkward for a while.”

“I don’t feel awkward.”

“That’s great, Luna,” Harry says, and he feels suddenly tired. Why does everyone insist that he’s missing out? His life is big, and beautiful, and there’s nothing wrong with it.

“Do you ever feel like you’re on the edges?” Luna says suddenly.

“The edges of what?” He hates this.

“The edges of everything, Harry. You have friends, and that’s wonderful, and you have a job you love, and so is that, but who do you share yourself with?”

“Everyone! With you guys, and with my students.”

“You _don’t_ share yourself with us, Harry. You give your time, and your love, and you never once let anyone see any of the things you deal with. You keep everyone at arm’s length. You don’t let anyone help you with anything.”

“Why are you doing this,” he says a bit desperately, and the pleading tone in his voice startles him. He notices that Ron and Hermione are watching him carefully, and as Luna and Hermione conduct a conversation through exchanged glances, he knows without question that this is part of some sort of unified effort.

“I thought you were done living in a cupboard while everyone else got to sit at the table,” she remarks, and although her tone is light, her eyes pierce him. It feels like when he’d spoken to the snake and everyone had _looked_ at him, had known that he was different, wrong. It feels like Luna has slapped him. It feels like he will never be okay again.

“Fuck you,” he whispers, and then he’s running, ignoring the way Hermione calls his name, and the fact that Teddy, always sensitive to the emotions of others, is crying. He runs until he reaches his quarters, and he wards the doors behind him. As he sinks to the floor just inside the door, he struggles to get his breathing under control. His hands shake, and he clenches them, feels the way his fingernails bite into his palms. He sits there for hours, unmoving. He wishes he could cry, but the sense of betrayal is too raw for tears. 

It’s so much worse that it was Luna who cut him open and exposed him for all to see. Kind, intuitive Luna, who had to have known that she would hurt him. He knows, that in the light of day, he’ll be able to see that her intentions were good, that it was an act of love, an attempt to shake him out of whatever pattern she thinks he needs to break. He knows that one day he will admit that a gentler attempt would have been too easy for him to ignore. But tonight, when he sits alone, his arse growing colder on the stone floor, he’s too heartbroken to focus on anything other than how much he wishes for his parents.

Of course there are owls, several a day, at first. He ignores them, and they become more and more persistent, but he becomes efficient with shield spells, and they flap through the Great Hall in agitation. When Hermione appears at breakfast one morning, he rushes back to his quarters, and, later, goes to Minerva.

She regards him over her spectacles for a long moment, as the tea pours itself, and biscuits appear on a plate. Her gaze is appraising, but not unkind. “I assume,” she says finally, “that you’re here to discuss some unwanted visitors and solicitations?” He nods, and her gaze continues, unwavering. She’s sizing him up in much the same way she did when he was eleven. She seems to realize something, perhaps that this is a test of her loyalty to him. Will she decide for him, the way that Dumbledore did when he was a child, or that his friends have, now that he’s an adult? Her smile is gentle, as she says, “The owls are easy. We already have wards that prevent those who don’t know you from sending correspondence. The spell can be extended to include those who do.”

His relief is enormous. She’s chosen him, chosen his wishes over what others think is best for him. “Not Andromeda,” he says hastily. “I need to be there for Teddy.”

“Of course. We will also continue to allow communication from Gringott’s, and from the Ministry, although I know you don’t love receiving those either,” she says with a wry twist to her lips. “We also have the ability to prevent those who are not expressly invited from visiting Hogwarts.”

“You do?” Harry is surprised. He always assumed that graduates had a nearly open invitation.

“We do,” she says. “It’s been an unofficial policy that those who have performed a service to the school, those who are loyal to Hogwarts, are always welcome, but it’s just that…unofficial. Officially, only students, board members, staff and those who are specifically invited are allowed to pass through the gates. Ordinarily, I would never close the doors to people who fought for Hogwarts in the way that your friends have.”

Harry starts to feel disappointment. He knows she’s doing her best, but he starts to feel just as unsafe as he did after the Death Eaters appeared in the Castle, as though his place of safety had been breached. He’s going to have to leave, he realizes, and his already bruised heart thumps miserably in his chest.

“However,” McGonagall continues, “there is no one I can think of who deserves privacy and peace more than you. Not only are you a member of my staff, but also, you’re my friend, and someone who I have always felt just a little more protective of than most of my students, although I’d deny that if you breathe a word of it. I will speak to the Guardians, and allow them to enforce the official policy.”

His throat is tight, and his eyes prickle as he meets her eyes. “Thank you, Minerva, truly.”

“Not at all, Harry. I’m pleased to help.” He stands to leave, but stops when she continues speaking. “For what it’s worth, I think that they meant well, even if they know nothing of subtlety. I hope that you find it in yourself to forgive them in time. They do love you.”

“I know,” he answers. “And I’m sure I will, eventually. But not right now.”

“As you wish,” she says.

And for a few months, that’s that. The owls are repelled, the visitors are refused. Harry stays in the castle, except for visiting Teddy, and Andromeda learns not to bring up Harry’s friends. He knows that he’s being unfair, refusing everyone when Luna is the only one who actually spoke to him, but it’s not like nearly every single one of them hasn’t raised it at some point. Harry’s tired of justifying himself, and he’s had enough of being pressured to do something for anyone’s greater good, even his own.

He spends a lot of time with Hagrid, which helps, and some time with Vincent Peachley, the Defence Professor that Minerva hired the previous year. Vincent went to school at Dumstrang, and so he is unimpressed by the ‘Chosen One’ rhetoric. He’s a decent enough bloke. The accent and his quiet manner remind him a little of Krum, who Harry always liked. It’s enough, Harry tells himself, and he tries to ignore the voice in his head that wonders if Luna is right, if he’s just settling for what he has, instead of trying to find something he wants. The voice, irritatingly, sounds an awful lot like Snape, and Harry takes its advice about as well as he’d taken it from the real Snape, which is to say that he answers the voice in his head snottily, and defensively, and then lies awake pondering it late into the night.

He’s sitting in the staff room one morning, completing a requisition for new student brooms, when a Portrait nearby clears its throat. Harry looks up, surprised to find that Snape himself is standing in the frame. Harry has ignored Snape’s portrait in Minerva’s office since the day it was installed. Then, he’d politely and privately thanked his Potions Professor, and apologized for his many transgressions. Snape had seemed a little surprised at his humility, but had accepted his thanks, and his apology, congratulated him on his accomplishments, and they’d both silently resolved to avoid one another, which had been successful so far. “Sir,” Harry says, standing. He still feels uncomfortable with Snape, who is no less imposing in the frame of a sunny meadow, which he’s entered, seemingly, to speak to Harry.

“Potter,” Snape says, his expression neutral. “I thought that you should know that Narcissa Malfoy has died.”

Harry’s heart stutters for a moment, but he recovers quickly, and says, “I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. My condolences. I know that you knew each other.”

“Thank you. I am aware that you and Draco have mended your relationship since your schooldays, and Minerva tells me that you’re not currently in contact with anyone outside the Castle. I thought you might wish to know.”

“I do, thank you. Do you know if Draco is at the Manor?” Draco moved into London immediately after getting his NEWTs, but if his Mother needed him, he would have gone home.

“He is,” Snape replies. Harry nods, planning. He’ll need to speak to Minerva, arrange for time off. He’s just considering whether to Apparate or Floo when Snape speaks again. “I take it that you’re not allowing your current disagreements with your friends to prevent you from contacting Draco?”

“That’s right,” Harry says. “He’ll need to have people around him. This is more important than my hurt feelings.”

Snape’s painted forehead creases for a moment and he regards Harry. “So you have grown up. I’m impressed, Mister Potter.”

Harry manages a smile. “Thank you, sir. I must be going, though.”

“Of course,” Snape demurs. Harry is nearly out the door when Snape calls after him, “Potter?”

“Yes, sir?” Harry turns back.

“I understand the point that you’ve been making with your friends. Nobody has the right to tell you what makes a full life. However, having the last word isn’t a victory if you punish yourself by locking yourself away from what makes you happy.”

Harry nods again. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

It takes Harry less than an hour to speak to Minerva, pack, and Apparate to the gates of Malfoy Manor. A house elf ushers him into a drawing room. Draco sits at a wide desk, writing something on a long parchment. He’s wearing his glasses, something that Harry knows he only does when he’s too tired to perform the vision correction spell. He looks exhausted. His face is grey, and his expression empty. “Draco,” Harry says softly.

Draco jumps, knocks his vial of ink over, and curses as he waves his wand to spell it back into the bottle. “Harry.” His eyes are wide, and an open, childlike expression crosses his face. “You came.”

“Course I did. Draco, I’m so sorry. Your mum was…amazing.” Harry crosses the floor, and Draco wards him off with upraised arms.

“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Harry, I’m barely hanging on. If you’re kind to me right now, I’ll fall apart and I won’t get through this.”

Harry nods, understanding completely. “Later,” he murmurs. “What do you need right now?”

Draco’s legendary poise has returned, and a grimace that nearly passes for a smile crosses his face. “You’re unlikely to be any help at all with planning a Pureblood funeral,” he says wryly.

“No, that’s true. I’d be far better if you asked me to wash some windows or something.”

“Perhaps you could go fetch Aunt Andromeda? I haven’t told her yet. She knows that Mother’s been sick, but I haven’t told anyone. I assume that Snape let you know?”

Harry nods. “Of course I can go get Andy. Do you want me to send Teddy to the Weasleys, or would you rather he be here?”

Draco considers. “Bring him, I think. He’ll give the house elves someone to fuss over. Right now they’re all crying in the kitchen.”

“Do you need me to tell everyone?” It will be awful, he thinks, to have to reach out to their friends, and tell them this news. But he’ll do it for Draco.

“No, I’ll firecall Blaise in a moment.” As Harry starts to leave, Draco says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” Harry asks.

By the time he returns with Teddy and Andromeda, the house is much fuller. Their friends are congregated in a large breakfast room, and the elves, who seem to be happy to have something to do, bustle in and out with food. The conversation falters when Harry enters the room. He sees a few of them exchange gazes. Hermione half rises from her chair, but a hard look from Ron causes her to sink back down. 

Harry awkwardly raises a hand in a lame sort of wave. “Hi,” he says, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. “I know that you all have a lot you probably want to say to me, and I have some unsaid stuff as well, but this isn’t the time. We’re here for Draco, and no matter what we’re feeling about the past few months, it can wait. Okay?” He hates the way his voice wavers, hates the way he feels as though he might fall apart. His emotions are far too close to the surface right now, and he knows that if someone pushes him, he’ll flee again, and it will likely be the last time he sees them.

“Of course, mate,” Ron says easily, and Harry is so grateful for his friend that he wants to weep. “The next few days are going to be weird enough without adding something so undignified as _feelings_ to the mix.”

“This is your first Pureblood funeral, isn’t it Harry?” Neville asks, and Harry sends him a relieved smile as he nods. 

The conversation moves on to Pureblood funeral rituals, and so Harry, the attention diverted from him, has a chance to exchange a look with Ron. Ron’s face is deceptively mild-looking, but his eyes have always been his tell. _I’m sorry_ , Harry tells Ron with his look, and Ron says, _I know, believe me, I understand what it’s like._ Harry isn’t sure what will happen with everyone else, whether he’ll ever regain the open trust they once had, but he knows that he and Ron are okay, and for now, that’s enough.

Pureblood funerals are…involved, Harry realizes. The next three days pass in a haze of ceremony, and specific outfits, and politeness. Harry hates it, but he is a solid presence for Draco, instinctively knowing when to enter a conversation and use his notoriety to distract some snobby old witch away from his friend. Ron keeps Hermione occupied, and away from Harry by educating her on all of the traditions, and Harry is grateful for her distraction. Neville is a godsend, as he talks Harry through the rituals and keeps him from committing any newsworthy faux pas. Harry doesn’t give a fig about whether the press catches him doing something embarrassing, but he cares about Draco, and genuinely liked Narcissa, and so he’s glad that her memorial is dignified, just as she’d have liked.

Luna doesn’t look at him, not once, until the funeral is over, and they’re all back at the Manor, lounging around in trackies, and drinking beer. Harry has known that this conversation has been inevitable, but he wishes futilely for more time. He’d spent a lot of the evening locked to Draco’s side, hoping that it would protect him…surely no one would be so insensitive as to bring up bad blood while Draco was grieving?

He’s wrong, of course. Luna meets his eyes, her head high. This isn’t going to be an apology, then. “Luna,” he says evenly. “You’re looking well.”

“Thank you,” she replies, just as politely. “No longer being pregnant does a lot for one’s figure.”

“And the twins are well?”

“They are. May I speak with you?”

No. “Yes.”

They head out to the rose garden, where a warming charm chases away the autumn chill. It’s dark now, but there are fairy lights that dispel the dark, and they cast lengthy shadows as they walk. Harry perches stiffly on a bench and waits. He’s gotten a lot better at that. He doesn’t struggle to fill awkward silences anymore, and has become patient enough to wait for someone else to make the first move. “I’m not sorry,” Luna says, “for what I said.” Harry nods, and realizes that this might be the moment that his friendship with Luna ends. “But I am sorry that I hurt you, and I’m even sorrier that I cornered you like I did.” Or, it might not be the end after all, he concludes. 

“You did hurt me,” he says, when it becomes clear that she’s waiting for him to speak. “Not because what you said was untrue, but because of your presumption that you have any right to judge my choice of lifestyle.”

Luna is shocked, he can tell. Harry knows that he’s awfully easy-going, and he normally takes his friends’ need to interfere in his life with awkward good grace. “I wasn’t judging-”

Harry holds up a hand, requesting her silence while he continues. “You were. Everyone does it. From the moment I got this stupid scar, people have acted like I was public property, and that everyone gets to have a say in the choices I make. I’m a person, Luna, and I deserve the right to decide things for myself. If that means that I don’t want to date, or I choose not to share my feelings with others, it’s my decision. You’re welcome to your opinions, and sometimes, I’ll invite you to share them with me. But I’m finished with other people deciding things for me, for my own good. If you think differently, that’s okay. We don’t have to be friends, and I’ll wish you all the happiness in the world as we go our separate ways. It’s your choice whether you want to take me as I am, or if you wish to see me as someone who needs fixing.” 

He feels brave, as he finishes speaking, proud of how clearly he was able to express himself. (The fact that he has been practicing this speech in various iterations during all of the sleepless nights he’s had since the picnic may have helped.) But then Luna watches him for a long time, and her pale blue eyes contain emotionless appraisal. His confidence begins to falter a little, and the self-doubt that he feels any time he tries to ask for something for himself starts to rise. He can’t keep looking at her. He can’t stay here. For a sudden, desperate moment, he wants to take it all back, tell Luna that he’s sorry, that she was right after all. To beg her to love him in spite of how little he deserves it. Finally, she says, “Okay.”

Harry waits, but that’s it. “Okay? Okay what, Luna?”

“You’re right. I don’t agree that you’re making the right decision, but it is your decision. I care about you, Harry. I want to keep being your friend.” It isn’t the unconditional validation that he’d secretly desired, but, he reminds himself, this is why he never asks for anything. People can’t disappoint you if you don’t expect anything. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, and eventually, Luna goes back inside. They’ve addressed it, anyhow, and while a part of him knows that their relationship will never be the same, he won’t feel like he has to avoid her completely anymore.

Even though he’s cold, he decides to sit for a minute longer, listening to the sounds of the night, and watching the stars twinkle. His introspection is cut short when someone sits next to him. It’s Draco. “Well done,” he says, recasting the warming spell. As a blanket of heat envelops Harry, he sighs.

“You overheard?”

“I shamelessly eavesdropped,” Draco confirms, and a ghost of his normal grin appears.

“I’d expect nothing less, Slytherin,” Harry says, without bite. “You coping okay? Need anything?”

“Distraction. Can we talk about you?”

“I’d rather not,” Harry says.

“Potter, we buried my mother today. Indulge me?”

“Fine. After all, I so enjoy hearing my friends opinions on my failings.”

“None of that. I told you, you did well with Luna. She can be supercilious, and it wasn’t fair of her to ambush you. I was quite angry when I realized that they’d all been plotting.”

“So was I.”

“They don’t understand you, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“No, they don’t. I guess I’m tired of apologizing for how I am. I had the most evil man I’ve ever met living in my head for my childhood, using every emotion I had against me. It isn’t so simple for me to change how I am, just for them to accept me. I love my friends, and I miss everyone when I’m away, but I’ve been alone before.”

“That sounds fairly final. As though you’ve written us all off.”

“No, not exactly. I just was overconfident about how I fit in. It hurt to realize that I didn’t measure up…again.” Harry’s voice trails off at the last word, as the truth of the statement hits him. He blinks hard to combat the unexpected tears that have welled up.

“Is that how it makes you feel?” Draco’s voice is unexpectedly gentle. Harry shrugs, then nods, then shrugs again. “I bet that a lot of your friends would be surprised to hear that.”

“It’s fine,” Harry sighs. “I know that they don’t mean to make me feel that way, and it’s not their fault I do.”

“I don’t think it’s fine. Harry,” Draco’s voice is so serious, so tender, that it startles Harry into looking over. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so sad. “Has anyone ever taken care of you?”

The question mortifies Harry. He feels exposed, worthless. How pathetic he must seem! He wants to run away, or push Draco enough to make him mad, but Draco is his friend, and he’s hurting, and Harry won’t make it worse. He settles for shrugging, and mumbling, “I’m sure my parents did. And Ron and Hermione.”

Draco doesn’t push him for more details, and more importantly, whatever pity he feels for Harry isn’t acknowledged. He just says, “I can see why it would be hard to expose yourself after being independent for so long. And I know what it’s like to feel like it isn’t safe to be vulnerable around anyone else.” Draco looks at him from under his fringe. His eyes are pretty, Harry notices absently. “You know all of the worst things I’ve ever done, and we’ve still ended up as friends despite it all. If you ever did feel like you wanted someone to talk to, really talk to, I…”. His glance falters and he flushes before he says, “I could be that person. No pressure or anything, but no judgement.”

Harry realizes how much this costs Draco. They aren’t really that different, the two of them. Draco clings to his wealth, and his arrogance, to protect him from people seeing, and rejecting, the real person inside. Harry tries to find a niche, to make himself useful to others so that they don’t notice that there _is_ no person inside. “Thanks, Draco,” he says, not at all sure that he’ll ever take him up on his offer, but aware that he doesn’t have that prickly wrong feeling he gets when anyone else talks to him about this stuff. “Maybe I will.”

Draco’s cheeks pink a little more, and he gives Harry a little smile. “Now,” Harry says, “we’ve successfully delved into my black, empty heart more than I ever expected to, and I’ve taken the attention away from you for nearly ten minutes. Surely it’s time to talk about you again?”

Draco laughs, and the moment passes. They sit companionably for a while, neither speaking, and Draco tells him about how his mum used to come and prune the roses, while Draco kept her company. 

“And sometimes,” he says, “we’d sit out here, and hex the peacocks when they came too close.” Harry laughs, a little horrified, but wholly amused at the idea of two snotty Pure-bloods doing something as undignified as casting spells on birds. “You don’t understand,” Draco protests, when he sees the look on Harry’s face. “They were absolutely vicious, and they’d chase me and bite me when I was small. I was terrified of them, but my father loved them, doted on them as though they were kittens. We had to keep our efforts secret of course, Father would have been furious if he’d caught us, but Mother knew how much they scared me, and she wanted me to feel safe, so she taught me how to scare them away. She always wanted to keep me safe…” Draco’s voice trails off then, and Harry hears the intake of breath. He puts his arms around Draco, and allows him to cry. He’s nearly silent in his weeping, but his lean body trembles. Harry recasts the warming charm three more times, while Draco cries, and sometimes talks. 

Eventually, his tears run dry, and Draco stands, holding out an arm to help Harry to his feet. “I think I might actually sleep after all that,” he says in wonder.

“Yes, well, losing one’s shit like a commoner is very exhausting,” Harry says, and Draco grins at him, and shoves his shoulder.

They’re nearly at the door when Draco says, “Thanks, Harry.”

“Yeah, anytime. Thank you too, for what you said.”

Harry decides to leave then, not willing to press his luck on what has, on balance, been better success than he could hope for. He gives Draco a last hug, and makes his way to the floo, carefully avoiding Hermione’s tragically hopeful eyes as he does.

Back in the castle, Harry feels unsettled. He’d managed to avoid thinking about everything during his self-imposed exile, but he can’t stop grappling with his feelings at seeing his friends again, and Luna and Draco’s words echo through his mind. Just as he had as a student, he takes to roaming the castle at night, his emotions warring. He’s content, he tells himself, he doesn’t need to risk losing everything by selfishly wanting more.

He wishes that he had someone to talk to, someone who has more experience, who might understand how he feels. He considers talking to Dumbledore, but immediately rejects the idea. His feelings for Dumbledore, even years later, are too complicated for him ever to trust his once-mentor again. Dumbledore, he realizes, despite his pretty words after Sirius disappeared through the Veil, was perfectly willing to sacrifice Harry for the greater good. He finds himself thinking more about Tom Riddle, who’s life paralleled his own until they turned opposite ways at a crossroads. He longs for someone who might help him sort through his complicated feelings, and then chides himself for wanting the very thing that he’d told Luna he _didn’t_ want.

His nighttime wanderings increase, while his bouts of restless sleep decrease. Even the ghosts start to comment on his pallor, his inability to stay still. Finally, one night, when he thinks his mind might break from the strain, he stands on the Astronomy Tower, watching the owls swoop in and out of the owlery. “This is a cheerful place,” a voice behind him says. He turns around, startled, to see Draco standing at the top of the stairs.

“I hated it up here, after,” Draco continues, crossing the floor and coming to stand next to him. Draco looks out across the silent grounds, and Harry’s grateful Draco doesn’t look at him.

“How did…”

“Snape came and woke me,” Draco says, his tone amused. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever been woken by Severus, but even in portrait form, he’s a lot to deal with.”

“Snape? Why would he do that?”

“He’s worried. It seems that he’s never really stopped looking out for you.” 

Harry can’t stop the laugh that rings harshly from his throat. “Ironic, isn’t it, that Snape has been the most reliable parental figure in my life, and he hated me from the first moment he laid eyes on me.”

“Yes, well, you’re not very likeable,” Draco says, and Harry laughs again, a real laugh this time. 

The silence that follows is companionable. Draco turns to face him. “What’s going on behind those big, sad eyes,” he asks, but Harry doesn’t feel pressured to answer.

He shrugs, wondering how he never noticed that Draco’s own eyes were grey, not blue as he’d always thought. “At the end of sixth year…after…I stood up here, terrified, because I knew that things were about to change, that something big was coming, and I didn’t think I was strong enough to face it. Feels the same now, but worse. With Voldemort, I wasn’t sure if I was going to get to live through it.”

“And now?” Draco asks.

“This time, there’s no enemy to fight, just myself. And I don’t know what I want to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“This time last year, I would have told you that I was happy, content. That I’d gotten the life I deserved after dying to defeat him. And now, I can’t say the same thing, not with any certainty. It’s terrifying.”

“You’re brave, though,” Draco says lightly. His hand is solid on Harry’s forearm, sure, and solid.

“I’m brave when it comes to risking my life to save people. I’m absolutely chicken when it comes to this sort of thing. I’m…I’m emotionally stunted, Draco. It’s not that I don’t want to reach out to other people. It’s that I have absolutely no fucking idea how.”

“None of us are born with an innate ability to relate to others, Harry.”

Harry laughs. “I don’t think that’s true. I think we _are_ born with that ability. It’s life that beats it out of us. Look at me, look at Snape. Look at…”

“Voldemort,” Draco says. Harry nods.

“I think that when I died, the part of me that was really human died too. I think I might be just a shell of a half person, whose body hasn’t caught up with his soul,” Harry says.

Draco doesn’t say anything to that, and Harry is relieved. The night gives way to dawn as Harry whispers, “I think I gave away my heart when I gave away my life.”

The next week is a little better. Harry feels less burdened by his secrets, that somehow, by having confessed his brokenness to Draco, he isn’t as captive to it. Snape continues to subtly stalk him as he roams the corridors, but he doesn’t speak to Harry. Harry isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed by Snape’s silence, but it’s comforting to see him, looming like a protective bat, in whatever landscape is nearest.

Vincent Peachley, in an ill-conceived flight of fancy, corners him in an alcove one evening. Harry’s eyes are wide as Peachley draws closer to him, and as his arms grip Harry’s and a strong leg insinuates itself between his thighs, Harry panics. He pushes Peachley away, and the Defence Master, startled, falls on his arse, looking up at Harry in confusion. Harry’s magic swirls around him, his unpreparedness for the situation making him dangerous, a snapping live wire downed from a pole. “I do not understand,” Peachley says, gaping at him. “I thought that you were single.”

“I am,” Harry says, and he rushes to his quarters, and wards the doors, and that ends his habit of seeking answers by wandering Hogwarts at night.

Harry begins to dream again, of the night in the forest. He sees himself turning the stone, sees his parents, Sirius, Remus. Instead of them walking him to his fate, they look at him curiously. “Do I know you,” his Mother asks thoughtfully. “You look rather like a boy I once knew, but he was alive.”

“I am alive,” Harry says, “for now.”

“No,” his Father says, his forehead wrinkled. “I don’t think you are.”

Harry is sure he’s going mad. He wants to go to Luna, to scream at her for disturbing the peace he’d found after the war. 

Draco still comes by often. He laughs until tears stream down his face when Harry tells him about Peachley’s failed seduction. Harry is annoyed. “I suppose you’re some sort of heartbreaker,” he says grumpily.

“No,” Draco says thoughtfully. “I’m too much of a romantic.”

“Waiting for true love?”

“Something like that. But, no, I’ve dated. I just haven’t found the right person.”

“And yet, nobody shouts at you and tells you that you’re wasting your life,” Harry says, and even he hears how bratty his tone is.

“Ah, never underestimate the way that unrequited love shuts down match-making attempts.”

“Unrequited? Are you sure?” Harry can’t bear the idea of Draco being lonely.

“Yes,” Draco says, his wry smirk revealing nothing, unless you look closely.

“But…Have you talked to her?”

“It isn’t a her, idiot, but no. There’s no point.”

“But how do you know?” Harry asks, feeling the familiar pull of a problem to solve, someone to help. 

“Harry,” Draco warns, “leave it.”

“But Draco…”

Something changes in Draco’s face, and he rolls his eyes at Harry. “I want you to remember this moment later, when I point out the irony.”

“Um, sure, okay,” Harry answers. 

Draco has a look on his face that Harry’s never seen before. He draws closer, and for a moment, Harry thinks that Draco is angry with him. He seizes him by the arms, and gets right in Harry’s face, and for a moment, he thinks that maybe he was wrong that he and Draco were friends. For a moment Draco looks just as he did after countless spats after Quidditch matches, and Potions classes and…oh…Draco’s lips seal on Harry’s and for a split second, Harry doesn’t think at all, so overwhelmed by sensation and the abstract notion of a key fitting into a lock perfectly, and _oh_.

Draco pulls back, and his eyes are wild, as though he’s leapt from the Astronomy Tower without a broom. Harry feels like he doesn’t even have a body anymore while at the same time being simultaneously aware of every synapse firing, every molecule of blood pumping through his veins. Draco’s eyes, impossibly, widen further, and he staggers back. “I…I didn’t-,” he stammers, but his long fingers press against his own lips as though he were trying to hold the feeling of their kiss within them.

“Draco,” Harry whispers.

“No, I…I’m sorry, I didn’t…”. The words escape him, and Draco takes another step backwards. He looks as though he’s terrified that Harry wants to hit him. Then, before Harry can decide whether he does, or whether he wants to pull him closer and kiss him again, Draco turns and runs from the Tower, leaving Harry standing stunned and alone.

Harry’s dreams change, and instead of facing Lord Voldemort in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, he stands in front of the Mirror of Erised. As he looks inside, he sees Lord Voldemort looking back at him. He awakens, heart pounding, covered in sweat, and wonders if maybe he should have stayed dead.

There’s a naming ceremony for Pansy’s son next week, and Harry doesn’t know what to do. “Think they’ll notice if I don’t come?”

Ron laughs. “Yes, numbnuts, they want you to be Godfather, so I assume your absence would be noted.”

“I don’t know if I can do it,” Harry confesses. “I’m so unsettled. I don’t want to risk causing a scene.”

“Harry, I never thought I’d accuse you of overthinking things.” Harry has confessed the kiss to Ron, after Ron showed up with a bottle of Fire Whiskey and a vague mumbling about ‘thinking Harry could use it’. “Also, I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you. Hermione’s always been the one to help us sort out this sort of thing. You know I’m pants at feelings and stuff.”

“I don’t need your help,” Harry mumbles, but it’s more out of reflex than anything else.

“She misses you.” It’s only because there’s no judgement in the statement at all that Harry doesn’t bristle. It’s just a statement of fact.

“I miss her too, but…”

“I know, mate. She can be a lot when she thinks she’s right.”

“Do _you_ think she’s right?” Harry’s never asked this before, and Ron, to his credit, has never volunteered his opinion.

“Aww, Harry, I don’t know. I think Luna and Hermione have awful bloody cheek to try to nag you into something you haven’t asked for. But, aside from that,” and here Ron looks at him, his blue eyes as clear and honest as they always have been, “I think that you’re my best mate, and that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to see you happy. I think you’ve been through all sorts of shit, and it’s left you a bit scared of asking for anything for yourself. And, I think that the people who love you would be thrilled to bring you a piece of the moon if you managed to ask for it.”

Harry’s embarrassed by the tears that spill down his cheeks, but Ron isn’t. “C’mere, you daft old softy.” Ron’s strong arms make him feel safe in a way he hasn’t felt since…ever, maybe.

“I might cock it all up,” Harry says into the sleeve of Ron’s jumper.

“Yeah, maybe. You might not though. Somehow I managed to keep Hermione from killing me, so there’s hope for you.”

After Ron leaves, Harry walks through the forest. He walks for a long time, Ron’s words and Draco’s kiss filling his mind. He isn’t surprised to find himself in the gods-damned clearing. His dreams have been taking him to this spot for ages now.

He stands in that spot, his memories of a younger, more hopeful self bright in his mind. He remembers how he was relieved, that, if nothing else, it was going to be _over_. He remembers how tired he was, how his mind raced with Snape’s memories, of Dumbledore’s manipulations, of the gut-wrenching fear that if this didn’t work, that the only people left in the word that he loved would die. 

He remembers his parents, how they watched, sad, but proud as he readied himself to die. He wonders if they’d be proud now. For a moment, he thinks about summoning the stone, getting a chance to ask them, but then he thinks of the Mirror of Erised, and he realizes that if he has a chance to bring his parents back, he’ll never want to let them go. He wonders whether that would be any different than what he’s been doing in the years since the war.

Without giving it another thought, he spins on his heel and apparatus to London. He stands outside a door for several moments, catching his breath, and trying to think of something to say. _Fuck it all_ , he thinks, and knocks on the door.

Draco is surprised to see him, then, immediately, the surprise is masked by Draco’s normal haughty stare. “Potter,” he says, his tone revealing nothing.

“Harry,” he corrects. “Can I come in?”

Draco is so brittle that it looks like he might shatter, but he steps back and allows Harry in. He pours two glasses of Fire Whiskey without asking whether Harry wants one. They sit, awkwardly, neither looking at the other until Harry blurts out, “You kissed me.”

“Fuck, Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Draco says, his voice dripping with agony.

“You didn’t?”

“Well, no,”

“Oh,” Harry says, and he feels stupid and foolish, and wants to get up and leave. This was a mistake.

“Not because I didn’t want to,” Draco says hurriedly. “I tried so hard not to push you, though, and then you just looked so beautiful standing there, and you pushed me to tell you the person I’m mad about, and I just…slipped.”

“You slipped?” Harry can’t help but grin at this. It’s so endearing and so…Draco.

“Yes, Potter, I slipped, and I’m sorry. I feel completely stupid, and I’d give anything to undo it.”

“I wouldn’t. Undo it, I mean. It actually helped me figure some stuff out.”

“Like what?” Draco’s voice is quiet.

“Well, it gave me an idea of the difference between what my life is, and what it could be, to start with.” Harry peers at Draco from beneath his lashes. Draco’s biting his bottom lip. Harry has never noticed that his two front teeth are just the tiniest bit crooked. “Listen, Draco, you know that I’m terrible at this kind of thing. But that kiss? It felt like an invitation. I’m going to fuck things up way more often than I get them right, and I’m certainly going to freak out sometimes, and be prickly and terrible, and maybe make you hate me. I haven’t got the slightest idea why you have any interest in me at all,” he says, and suddenly, he’s terrified that he’s gotten this all wrong. “That is, if you do…have interest.”

Draco is looking at him as though he’s speaking Parseltongue, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t. He waits a moment, but Draco doesn’t say anything, and Harry literally wants to die. He thinks he might just get up and leave, and then go cast the Killing Curse on himself. But he wants to be sure, so he tells himself to be brave, and says, “Did you? Have interest?”

Draco’s mouth twists for a moment, before he breaks into the most heart-stoppingly beautiful smile that Harry’s ever seen. “Yes, Harry. I have interest.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his voice small. He’s obviously dreaming, so he decides to just go for it, and finish what he has on his mind. “That’s good. I…also have interest. But I’m also completely broken, and I’m not going to be any good at anything, and I think I need to go really slow, and Merlin knows, I’m not really a catch, so as my friend, I’ll tell you right now that you could do a lot better. But,” Harry stops to take a breath, and he’s not sure if he can say this next part, so he waits it out, and hopes that maybe Draco will start talking so he doesn’t have to. Sadly, Draco is just looking at him, so he summons his courage, and says, in a voice that makes him curse his fears, “But, I want this. I want you.”

Draco’s smile grows even wider, and his cheeks are blushing the most beautiful shade of pink. “Harry, could I kiss you?”

It’s a lot scarier when he knows it’s coming, but Draco’s face is so beautiful, and his voice is so kind that Harry nods. His eyes instinctively close as Draco leans closer, and when their lips touch, it’s even better than the last time. 

* * * *

“Harry, for Merlin’s sake, if we’re late, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Harry appears around the doorjamb, his eyes dancing, a little smile on his lips. 

“I…” Draco doesn’t know, actually, but Harry looks beautiful standing there, so he crosses the room quickly, and wraps his arms around him.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry says smugly, and he kisses Draco so soundly that he’s left gasping. “You know, this isn’t helping me get ready any sooner.”

“Ready for what?” Draco asks dazedly, prompting Harry to kiss him again, before he pulls away and heads to the en suite. 

“I was just picking out clothes anyhow,” Harry’s voice says over the shower, and Draco squawks in annoyance.

“No, Harry, absolutely not, you’re not picking out his clothes. I specifically had robes tailored for this, and if I leave it up to you, you’ll put him in something ghastly.”

“I still think it’s ridiculous to put a baby in robes,” Harry calls, but Draco has left the room and is too busy trying to convince Kreacher to disobey Harry’s orders to answer.

As it turns out, Harry was just trying to wind Draco up, and he has no opinion on what the baby should wear, so the three of them make it to Hogwarts nearly on time. Hermione, when they arrive, has a list several inches long that she’s frantically going over, and she’s doing a terrible job at hiding her annoyance at their lateness. Harry, to his credit, kisses her cheek, reminds her that Scorpius isn’t going to remember whether they started on time, and firmly shoves Ron at her when she continues to witter on.

The ceremony goes perfectly, and Ron and Pansy accept their godparent roles delightedly. Harry is beaming throughout, and, if his eyes aren’t on Scorpius, they’re on Draco, full of love, and pride, and a happiness that Draco can’t get enough of seeing.

Afterwards, when everyone is getting dignified-drunk, the house-elves topping up champagne every time someone’s glass is less than half-full, Draco watches Harry as he and Scorpius examine the hourglasses that track house-points. Harry is determined that Scorp will be a Ravenclaw, while Draco, surprising everyone, wants the baby to be a Hufflepuff.

“He’s doing well,” says a voice from beside him.

Draco looks up. “Yes, I think he’s really happy.” Draco _doesn’t_ say ‘no thanks to you’, which he attributes to the excellent mind-healer that Harry, and sometimes Draco, have seen since they started dating. It hasn’t been easy for Harry, Draco acknowledges, but once he got a taste of what his life could be like, he’s been relentless in unlearning the thought patterns that life taught him. Sometimes, he gets prickly, and distant, and Draco understands that he needs reassurance, but not guilt in those moments. It wasn’t easy for Draco to learn that, but he has, and they’re stronger for it. Adopting Scorpius has been another thing that has caused them the odd stumble, but Draco knows that Harry loves them both, and that he’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.

Luna smiles as they both watch Harry awkwardly dance Scorpius around. He’s still the least coordinated dancer Draco’s ever seen, but he’s unselfconscious and laughing, and Scorpius is shrieking with glee. “I don’t regret it,” she says, but Draco knows she does, a little. It was good for Harry to realize that his life could be so much fuller, but it came at the cost of his trust for Luna, and Draco doesn’t think that they’ll ever get it back.

“I’m glad,” he says, but that’s not strictly true either. He’s incredibly protective of Harry, and he refuses to stand by while people manipulate him. Harry too, has gotten much better at setting boundaries, but he seems to appreciate that he doesn’t have to do it all on his own, and his gratitude, on the few occasions when Draco has stepped in to help, has been expressed in creative ways that Draco will never complain about.

Finally, the guests go home, and Harry and Draco decide to walk back to their cottage in Hogsmeade, Scorpius bundled up snugly in Harry’s arms. They stop at the gates, while Harry says goodnight to the winged boars that guard the Castle. After he pats each on in turn, he turns back to Draco, and says, with a blissful little smile, “Alright?”

“Never better,” Draco says, and he knows that they’re going to be just fine.


End file.
